


How Not to Say "I Love You": An Instruction Manual by Gerard Piqué

by jarjarbinks



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2019-10-22 17:50:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17667269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarjarbinks/pseuds/jarjarbinks
Summary: Love confessions are never easy, but they are all the harder when you're an idiot.





	1. Alone with a Bottle and Memories

For what felt like the hundredth time that night, Gerard threw his phone back down onto the bed and took another drink. He wasn’t quite sure what point of drunk was drunk enough to make the call, but this didn’t feel like it. He pulled his laptop onto his lap again and clicked on another picture. 

It wasn’t a team shot like he’d been expecting. This picture was of a single player. A single player with no jersey, his torso bared for all the world to see. Gerard’s eyes traced the familiar lines of ink filling his screen, his mouth suddenly dry. 

Fuck it, he was drunk enough. He grabbed his phone off the bed again and hit the call button before he could think about it. Thinking before acting was overrated anyway.

Only after several impossibly long rings did Gerard finally hear the sound of someone picking up on the other end, and it was another moment before he heard a mumbled “Hello?” The voice was thick with sleep and Andalusian. Gerard’s stomach lurched dangerously. 

“You know what I love about you?” he blurted. Thinking really was overrated, after all.

There was a long silence. “Piqué?” the voice on the phone finally asked.

“I love that it’s possible to date any picture based on how many tattoos you have and the length of your hair,” Gerard continued. He still hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from the image in front of him, and his dick was starting to notice.

Another long moment passed before he finally got a bleary “It’s 4 in the morning.” 

“I was just looking at some old team pictures,” Gerard replied. It felt like a pretty reasonable excuse to his ears. “Tío, you _really_ like tattoos.”

“You’re calling in the middle of the night to tell me I like tattoos?” The man on the other end of the line was sounding a little more awake now, but not enough for the heavy Sevillan accent to have faded any. Gerard’s dick noticed that too.

“When you say it like that it sounds absurd.”

“Are you drunk?”

Gerard smiled to himself. Drunk enough for it to be noticed was exactly the level he had been looking for. “I may have had a drink or two,” he replied, letting his words slur a little more than they needed to.

There was a huff of irritation. “And you don’t have anything better to do than drunk-dial me? It’s international break and you’re retired. You could be getting laid or something.”

“Does looking at pictures of you and touching myself count?” Shit, maybe he really was drunk. Or maybe he was just beyond caring. It was hard to tell which. There was no reply, and Gerard really never had been good at shutting up. “God, you look so good,” he breathed. “The things I want to do to you.” His hand slid down to palm at his stiffening cock.

“What the hell?” finally came from the other end of the line. The voice sounded a little breathless, but it was impossible to say if it was from arousal or shock, or just Gerard’s wishful thinking. 

Gerard forced out a laugh. “I’m drunk.” He downed the contents of his glass, as though that would make the excuse less hollow. 

“And I’m hanging up. Go to sleep, Piqué.” 

“Wait.”

There came the sound of someone taking the deep breath of one regretting their life decisions. “Yes?” 

Gerard almost stopped himself. Almost. But keeping his thoughts to himself was usually a losing battle, even without liquor in his system. And screw it. He’d already come this far. “I love you,” he said.

There was a silence, followed by a very quiet, very confused “Qué?”

“I love you. I’m in love with you. I always thought I’d tell you that after we’d won some grand victory together, and the adrenaline was making me bold. When we both proudly bore the colours of Spain and you were smiling at me the way you used to when we fought for our country, side by side. But, well. Things change. Spain doesn’t want me anymore. And you don’t smile at me like that anymore. So here I am, alone with a bottle and memories and nothing to hold me back.” Gerard was just rambling now, not quite sure where his mouth was taking him. “I love you, Sergio Ramos García. And the colour of our jerseys is never going to change that.”

This time the silence was deafening, and it seemed to stretch out for eternity. When the answer finally came, it wasn’t quite the one Gerard had been looking for. “Goodnight, Piqué,” Sergio said. And the line went dead.

Gerard sighed and tossed his phone aside again. He was sure he was going to feel something in the morning – shame or pain or regret. But for now all he felt was need. After a moment’s hesitation, he opened Google, typed “sergio ramos tattoos” into the search bar, and shoved his hand into his pants.


	2. Recklessly Bold

Gerard woke up with a splitting headache and the vaguely unsettled feeling that he’d done something stupid. With a groan, he felt around him for his phone. Knowing what time it was would help bring back some sense of reality. 

The sight of his phone brought back more than that. Memories of the previous night came flooding back to him in nauseating waves, and the time was suddenly the least of his concerns. “Hòstia _puta_ ,” he hissed, quickly fumbling to unlock the phone and check his recent calls. And there it was, glaring back at him clear as the daylight currently stabbing into his eyes. “Fuck fuck _fuck_.” 

He rolled out of bed and went to get a glass of water and some painkillers. His head felt like a dried-out sponge and it really wasn’t helping anything. 

It took several long moments of Gerard lying on his bed feeling very sorry for himself before the painkillers finally started kicking in, and his brain cleared a little as the haze of pain faded away. With a sigh, he picked up his phone again. The damage had already been done, and damage control was always better done sooner rather than later. He took a deep breath and pressed the call button.

To his surprise, Sergio answered on the third ring. “I was wondering when I’d be hearing from you,” he said. His voice was light and teasing, and Gerard’s heart contracted painfully as he pictured the smile on the other man’s face, a smile that seemed so very far away from him.

“Sergio,” Gerard groaned, suddenly unsure exactly what he had called to say. He hadn’t been expecting such an immediate answer. Or any answer at all. “Fuck,” he finished lamely.

“I would not want to be you today, hombre,” Sergio said, and Geri could still hear the grin on his face. “I can’t even imagine how much you must have had to drink last night.”

“Enough.”

Sergio laughed, and Gerard felt warm. “How much do you remember?”

Gerard groaned again. “Too much.”

“Don’t feel bad, Geri.” Sergio was sounding far too smug now. “It’s hardly the first time an adoring fan has confessed their love to me.”

“I fucking hate you.”

“That’s not what you said last night.”

“I was drunk,” Gerard muttered, trying to reclaim even one shred of dignity. 

Sergio laughed again. “I know. Don’t worry about it, Geri, seriously. We’ve all been there.” He paused. “Well, maybe not _there_ exactly. I can’t say I’ve ever called up a former captain and told him I think about him when I touch myself, but we all have our moments.”

“What’s stopping you, Sergio? Iker’s waiting for that call.” 

“Iker’s going to be waiting a while.”

Gerard closed his eyes and took a breath, willing himself to say what needed to be said. “I didn’t mean it,” he finally managed. “The things I said last night. I don’t want you walking around thinking I’m lusting after you or pining after you or something.”

“Trust me, Geri, I know better than to take you seriously, even when you’re not completely wasted. I’m sure it seemed hilarious to you at the time.”

Gerard blinked. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, really, but it hadn’t been a perfect way out gift-wrapped and hand-delivered to him. “Yeah,” he said after a moment, unsure how else to respond. 

Sergio snorted. “I have to go,” he said. “Drink lots of water and try to go easy on the liquor tonight, eh?”

“I’m never drinking again.”

“Glad to hear it. God knows who you might end up confessing your love to next.”

“Goodbye, Sergio.”

“See you, Geri.” And once again, the line went dead.

Gerard lay there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling with a vaguely unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach. Moments ago he would have given anything for Sergio not to take last night’s call seriously. But having Sergio laugh it off so easily, so _smugly_ … quite frankly it just kind of pissed him off. 

He hit redial. 

“Sí?” Sergio sounded a little confused this time.

“I meant every word I said last night,” Gerard said, ignoring every part of his brain that was screaming at him to shut up. “I am lusting after you. And – much as I hate to admit it – I guess I’m pining after you a little bit too.”

“Geri?” There was definite confusion now.

Gerard sighed and ran a hand over his face. “I’m sick of pretending it’s not true, Sergio. You of all people should know I’ve never been very good at that.” 

“Piqué, this really isn’t funny anymore. Not that it ever was.”

“I’m not trying to be funny, you fucking idiot.”

“You actually expect me to believe that you’re in love with me?”

“I…” The word ‘love’ suddenly seemed like a very big, very powerful one, and if Gerard were any less stubborn than he was, he would probably have dropped the whole thing right then and there. But Gerard Piqué was a very stubborn man. “Yes. Do you need me to come over there and prove it to you?”

“That’s alright,” Sergio said quickly, the words sounding a little strangled. He was silent for a moment. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” he said finally. 

“I don’t want you to say anything. I just didn’t want you thinking you were right.”

Sergio snorted. “You’d rather confess your unrequited love for a former teammate than be wrong?”

Gerard tried to ignore how much the word ‘unrequited’ stung. “I don’t care about me being wrong, Sergio,” he informed him. “I just don’t want _you_ being _right_.”

“You’re ridiculous.” 

“Well, that one you might be right about,” Gerard admitted. 

There was the sound of Sergio shifting slightly, and Gerard wondered if he was lying in bed too. He tried not to imagine how the other man might look, spread out on top of the covers. “I’m… flattered,” Sergio said finally, his voice sounding almost soft. “I think. Fuck, to be honest, I really don’t know what to feel.” 

“Maybe I can help you figure it out,” Gerard said, making sure his voice was suggestive enough that even someone as dumb as Sergio would understand exactly what he was implying.

“That’s not – ” Sergio started, an edge of panic in his voice. “That’s not what I meant,” he muttered, getting his tone back under control. 

“My offer still stands.”

“I’m not gay.”

“Neither am I. Doesn’t make me want to fuck you any less.”

“Who says you’d be the one fucking me?” Sergio demanded, his indignation apparently strong enough to override his discomfort, at least momentarily.

“You’re just so damn fuckable,” Gerard said. It was liberating to finally be able to say it. “I’d love to get my hands on that ass of yours.”

“I didn’t need to hear that.”

“You asked,” Gerard said, his voice pure innocence. “I’d be open to you fucking me though, if that’s what you’re into,” he added agreeably.

“I – no – Geri, no,” Sergio sputtered. “There isn’t going to be any fucking.”

Gerard laughed. “I would have told you all this a long time ago if I’d known you were going to get so flustered,” he said. “It’s adorable.”

“I’m not flustered.” It sounded far too defensive to be at all convincing. “I’m uncomfortable. There’s a difference.” 

Gerard snorted. “If you were uncomfortable, you would have ended the conversation a long time ago,” he informed the other man. “No, you’re not uncomfortable. You love having your ego stroked. And nothing does that better than having your rival tell you how much he wants you, right? Admit it, Ramos, you’re enjoying this.”

There was a short silence before Sergio gave him an answer. “Maybe a little,” he said, and there was a strangely breathless quality to his voice that made something hot and recklessly bold uncoil in Gerard’s gut.

“I could tell you more, if you want,” he said, unable to stop his hand from drifting down to rub at himself. “I could tell you all the things I want to do to you. Would you like that, Sergio?” He was almost certain he heard Sergio’s breath hitching, and the sound shot straight to his rapidly stiffening dick. “I’ve wanted you for so long. I don’t think I could be patient. It would be rough and hard and dirty, but that’s just how you’d want it, isn’t it? You always have liked to play a little rough.”

“Geri,” Sergio finally cut in. His voice was low and soft, barely more than a whisper, and Gerard couldn’t have imagined the slight tremor in it. “I have to go. The team must be waiting for me by now.”

Gerard took a few breaths, steadying himself. “Of course,” he said. “We can finish this later.”

“Don’t count on it.” Sergio hung up.

A small smile crept onto Gerard’s face as he dropped the phone onto the bed beside him. That wasn’t a no. Something dangerously close to hope fluttered in his chest.


	3. The Sergio Ramos Effect

Gerard did his best to distract his brain for the rest of the day, and by the time his phone rang that evening, he was so absorbed in a tennis match that he didn’t even think to check who was calling before he answered. “Yes?” he said absently.

“I wasn’t satisfied with how our conversation ended,” Sergio’s voice said in his ear.

Gerard grabbed the remote and turned off the television, tennis immediately forgotten. “I was left pretty unsatisfied myself,” he replied, hoping Sergio could hear the smirk on his face. 

Sergio snorted. “I think you’re even more shameless now that you’re gay.” 

Gerard grinned, settling himself back into the couch cushions. “Isn’t that why you called me?”

“I called because I don’t want you left with the impression that you can fluster me.”

“Ah, so it’s a matter of pride.”

“Exactly.”

“Not because you liked the way it got your heart racing.”

“In your dreams, Piqué.”

“You have no idea.” Gerard couldn’t quite keep the many years’ worth of pent-up frustrations from seeping out into the words.

“So I even haunt your dreams,” Sergio said, sounding far too smug. 

“You have entered my dreams, on occasion,” Gerard clarified. 

“And what do you dream about?”

A wicked grin spread across Gerard’s face. There was the opening he’d been waiting for. “I dream about a lot of things,” he said, closing his eyes and letting his mind wander to all the thoughts he usually tried to ignore. “I dream about pressing you up against a wall and kissing you until you’re breathless, touching you until you’re begging me to fuck you right there. I dream about having you in my bed, spread out and naked so I can explore every inch of your skin with my hands and my lips and my tongue. I dream about your tattoos, all those fucking ugly tattoos that somehow make you look like sin incarnate. I dream about mapping them with my fingers. I dream about leaving my own marks on your body with my nails and my teeth, making sure you don’t forget who had you.” 

At some point in all this, Gerard’s hand had found its way between his legs, rubbing at his swelling erection through his sweatpants. He was no longer in control of his brain or his mouth, and he paused for a moment, desperately trying to regain some composure. “I dream a lot about Clásicos,” he continued when Sergio remained silent. “I know how much they excite us both.” He couldn’t bring himself to care how rough his voice was, how breathless with want. “I dream about Barça crushing Madrid, about finding you in the locker room afterwards, when you’re all flushed and sweaty and beautiful, and fucking you hard enough that you forget, making you come until you stop caring.” Gerard finally gave himself over fully to his desire, thrusting his hand into his pants so he could stroke himself properly, letting a groan fall from his lips when he finally found the friction he was looking for. “Sometimes I dream about Madrid crushing Barça too,” he breathed. “I dream about you coming to me, coming to put me in my place, pushing me to my knees in front of you. I dream about worshiping your cock with my mouth until you feel even more like a god.” 

Gerard heard a quiet sound on the other end of the line, somewhere between a gasp and a stifled moan, and the sound shot through him like a jolt of electricity, pushing him over the edge so quickly it would have been embarrassing if he’d been in any state of mind to care. He couldn’t hold back his own breathless moan as he spilled hotly over his fist, didn’t even try to hide his ragged breathing as he stroked himself through his climax.

There was a moment of silence as Gerard got himself back under control. His brain slowly started working again and he opened his eyes, letting awareness swim back to him in a dizzying rush. 

“A summary would have been fine, Geri,” Sergio said. His voice was infuriatingly calm and unruffled. 

“That was the summary. Want me to tell you the details?”

“I think I heard enough to last a lifetime. Far too much, actually.”

“Bullshit. It’s why you called.”

“I told you why I called.”

“Right, of course,” Gerard muttered. “Well, you’ve proved your point brilliantly. Are we finished?”

“It sounds like you are.” Sergio sounded very pleased with himself, and Gerard had never wanted to strangle the man more.

“I’m hanging up.” 

Sergio laughed. “No you’re not.” His voice was light and playful and his laughter was like a ray of sunshine and no, Gerard wasn’t hanging up. “From the sounds of things you dream about me more than occasionally,” Sergio said, and Gerard could perfectly picture the look of complete self-satisfaction of his face.

“You’re a walking wet dream, Sergio,” Gerard sighed. He was sure he hadn’t actually dreamed most of the scenarios he’d been describing, but he’d had enough dreams of the like that it wasn’t really relevant. 

“Yeah?” Pure, smug ego laced each of Sergio’s words, and Gerard hated the way his traitorous body reacted to it.

“Yeah.”

“Why thank you, Geri.”

“I really don’t know why I like you.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. You never stood a chance. The Bernabéu always loves me.”

Gerard tried and failed to stop a laugh from escaping him. “Bernabéus are all cursed with terrible taste, apparently.”

“It’s not terrible taste, it’s the Sergio Ramos Effect.” 

“God help us all.” Gerard rested his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “Did you touch yourself?” he asked suddenly.

“Excuse me?” Sergio demanded, sounding a little less than composed for the first time that night.

“Earlier. Did you touch yourself?”

“Definitely not.”

“Not even a little bit?”

This time Sergio paused for a moment before replying. “Only when you talked about Madrid crushing Barça,” he said finally. His tone was teasing, and it was impossible for Gerard to tell if he was serious.

Gerard laughed. “If that’s all it takes to get in your pants, I’ll let in as many goals as you want in the next Clásico. Hell, I’ll score on my own net. Again,” he added, before Sergio could say it for him.

“Tempting.”

“That Clásico can’t come soon enough,” Gerard sighed. Sergio made a noncommittal noise in response to this, and Gerard grinned. “Nervous, Ramos? You won’t have a phone to hide behind then. We can see exactly how unflustered I make you.”

“I don’t have anything to hide from you, Piqué.”

“Sounds like a challenge.”

“Maybe it is.” 

Something in Sergio’s voice sent a dark heat surging through Gerard’s body. “Christ, Sergio, I want to see you,” he groaned. 

“Patience is a virtue, Geri,” Sergio replied serenely. 

“I am not a virtuous man. And you’re a damn tease.”

“You’re just easily frustrated.”

“By you, very.” Sergio didn’t reply to this, and Gerard wished he could see the other man’s face, get any indication of what he might be thinking and feeling.

A strangely comfortable silence settled over them, neither one of them speaking and neither one of them hanging up. Then Sergio yawned loudly. “It’s getting late,” he said. “I should go. Big day tomorrow.” 

“Good luck,” Gerard said. “Vamos España.”

“Will you be watching?”

“Of course. You’d better score a goal for me.”

“I’ll do my best.” Gerard could hear the smile in Sergio’s voice. “Goodnight, Geri.”

“Goodnight, Sergio.”

~

Sergio scored, but Croatia beat them in the final minutes of the match. Sergio didn’t call Gerard that night. Gerard knew better than to call him either. 


	4. Let’s Hope for a Draw

Gerard spent the next couple days feeling far too much like a teenager agonizing over whether or not to call his crush. On the third day, he couldn’t handle it anymore. He dialed Sergio’s number.

It took four tries before Sergio finally picked up. “Geri?” He sounded distracted, distant, and Gerard’s stomach suddenly twisted nervously.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he offered cautiously. 

Sergio snorted. “Definitely not.”

“You scored my goal.”

“Too little, too late.” Sergio sounded tired, and Gerard found himself desperately wanting to bring the lightness and the laughter back to that voice. 

“It was a beautiful goal though.”

“You liked it?”

“It turned me on.”

Sergio made a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “You really have a one-track mind, Geri.”

“Can you blame me?”

“Not at all.” The smug edge in Sergio’s tone eased the knot in Gerard’s stomach a little.

“You love knowing how much you consume my every waking thought.” Gerard let out a long-suffering sigh for added effect.

“Some of your sleeping thoughts too, from what I recall,” Sergio said, and Gerard had to smile at how easily he took the bait. 

“I never did give you the details,” Gerard offered innocently. 

“So I can listen to you get off after a few minutes of hearing the sound of your own voice again?” 

There was a playful, mischievous edge to Sergio’s voice that Gerard found endlessly endearing, and he couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh like you didn’t love every minute of it.”

“I do love hearing you embarrass yourself,” Sergio conceded.

“You love knowing how fast I get off thinking about you.” There came the silence Gerard had come to expect after he made these kinds of statements, the silence that always made him wish more than anything that he could see Sergio’s face, see if his words had any effect at all.

Gerard was just starting to wonder if Sergio had hung up on him when the other man let out a sigh. “I should get some sleep. I’m tired.”

“Physically or existentially?” 

“Both.”

“Get some rest, Sergio.” He paused for a moment. “Talk to you later,” he added. It was almost a question.

“Goodnight, Geri.”

Gerard let his phone fall away from his ear as the line went dead. He glared up at the ceiling. Leave it to Spain to fuck up his sex life like they fucked up everything else. If he even had a sex life. Right now all he had was a hell of a lot of frustration and only his hand to turn to for release.

~

The end of international break came as a welcome relief, and Gerard threw himself back into training full-heartedly. The return to routine made the return to his previous state of repression much easier, though he found himself staring at his phone more frequently in the evenings, hoping for a call, or wondering if he should make a call, or just hating how pathetic he felt.

He watched Real Madrid become kings of the world once again. He watched Sergio lifting the trophy above his head, his smile lighting up the whole stadium, the whole world. Gerard imagined how Sergio must be feeling, with the adrenaline pumping through his veins and setting his body on fire. In this moment, the man was a god. 

Gerard fiddled with his phone for a moment. He almost wrote a simple _Congratulations_ to the Madrid captain, but something about that single word made him feel exposed and vulnerable. Instead he texted _Enjoy it while it lasts_ and dropped his phone back onto the couch with a sigh. 

It was the middle of the night when the call came. Gerard let it ring a few times before he picked up, just to give the impression that he was asleep, or at least not desperate. “Next year it’s ours,” he said in greeting.

“Geri,” Sergio said, his voice almost a purr, and Gerard felt a shudder run through his body. “From what I understand of your dreams, you aren’t supposed to talk to me that way when I’ve won.”

This was one of the most dangerous forms of Sergio that he could face, bold and invincible from a win, and Gerard knew he should be careful. But Gerard had never in his life backed down from a challenge, and all the warning bells going off in his head only served to excite him. “I can talk to you however I want,” he said, trying not to sound as breathless as he felt. “It’s your job to shut me up.” 

“And how am I supposed to accomplish what no one else in the world could?” Sergio asked, the laughter in his voice making Gerard feel far too giddy. 

“You’re Sergio Ramos.” 

“I tried for years to get you to shut up, Geri. I think you’re a lost cause.”

“Maybe you just weren’t creative enough.”

“Is that so?” The edge of a purr was back in Sergio’s voice, and Gerard bit back a groan as a wave of heat flooded his body. He didn’t know what was worse: how tightly Sergio had him wrapped around his finger, the fact Sergio knew it, or the fact he couldn’t bring himself to care about either of those things.

“You’re much more imaginative in my dreams.”

“When I’m gagging you with my cock?”

“Exactly.” Gerard didn’t even try to hide his breathlessness this time.

“If I’d known that was all it took to shut you up, I’d have had you on your knees years ago.” Sergio’s voice was playful and teasing, but there was a heated edge to it that made Gerard’s stomach lurch. 

“You’ll have to try it sometime,” Gerard replied, as calmly as he could. He wondered if Sergio knew just how hard he was making him.

“Not going to happen,” Sergio sounded far too smug, far too confident, and it was driving Gerard crazy.

“Of course not,” Gerard replied evenly. “You’d have to beat Barça for that.”

“Win or lose, Piqué, nothing’s going to happen.”

“Let’s hope for a draw then.”

Sergio chuckled softly. “Alright. If it’s a draw, we’ll talk. Don’t get ahead of yourself though. You still have a couple months to try to get over me, as hard as that might be.”

“Unless we face each other in the Copa.”

An explosion of shouting and laughter suddenly came for the other end of the line, and with a hasty “I have to go,” Sergio was gone.

~

A little over a month later, Real Madrid and Barcelona were drawn to face each other for the semi-final of the Copa del Rey.

Minutes after the draw, Gerard’s phone buzzed. It was a message from Sergio that simply said _I hope a month was enough_ , followed by a kissy-face emoji. Gerard shoved his phone back into his pocket and wondered – not for the first time – why the hell his heart had chosen Sergio Ramos.


	5. El Clásico

“Hola, tíos,” Gerard sang happily as he strode into the dressing room. “Ready to colour Los Blancos?” 

Jordi rolled his eyes. “You get far too happy about Clásicos, my friend.”

Gerard grinned. “They’re my favourite games,” he said. 

“Yes, we’ve all heard how excited they make you,” Luis snorted.

“Or how excited something makes you,” Leo muttered, but when Gerard turned to look at the man he was busy on his phone, and Gerard couldn’t quite be sure he’d heard him properly, though Luis’s stifled laughter gave him the strong suspicion he had.

Gerard pointed his finger at Leo imperiously. “Those on the bench do not get to submit comments at this time.”

Leo just smiled, but as they got ready to go to the tunnel, Gerard found the smaller man next to him, patting him on the arm as he moved towards the door. “I know you won’t let anything distract you,” he said quietly, and he was gone before Gerard could decide whether it was a reassurance or a warning.

~

Leo was right. The minute the whistle blew, Gerard was focused on nothing but the ball, the match, the win. Even Sergio’s hands on him during a set piece didn’t break his concentration.

Gerard’s mind was still on the match after the final whistle, and he was only half aware of what was happening as he pulled Sergio into his arms. As he moved to pull away, Sergio held him back, grinning up at him with that smile that could turn night into day. “I guess we’ll have to talk,” he said, and Gerard came crashing back into the present with a laugh as he looked down at the mischief dancing in the man’s eyes. He was still smiling as he moved away, suddenly far too giddy.

~

“Your team is going to leave without you.”

Sergio started, spinning around at the sound of Gerard’s voice. “Geri,” he said, his eyes widening slightly with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

Gerard shrugged, grinning at the man standing in front of him in his underwear. “All your teammates already left. I was starting to worry.”

Sergio raised his eyebrows. “Your concern is touching. But why were you lurking outside the dressing room in the first place?” 

Gerard took a step forward, his grin broadening. “I’m here for our talk.”

Sergio smirked. “You just wanted to see me undressed.”

“When I want to see you undressed I just visit your Instagram.”

“Pervert,” Sergio said, looking far too pleased with himself. 

Gerard crossed the room slowly, letting his eyes run down Sergio’s body as he moved towards him. “Can you blame me?” he asked. “You know exactly what you’re doing when you post those things.”

“If I’d known that what I was doing was seducing Gerard Piqué, I would have kept my shirt on.”

Gerard laughed, coming to a stop a few feet away from the other man. “You love having me at your beck and call, Sergio. Admit it.” 

Sergio cocked his head to the side thoughtfully. “When you put it that way, I can’t say I mind it quite so much,” he conceded. 

Gerard took another step forward. “I liked you better when you were shy and flustered,” he said, watching with some satisfaction as Sergio’s breath caught slightly in his chest. 

Sergio shrugged, everything about him just a little too nonchalant to be believable. “I told you, Piqué. You don’t fluster me, and you’re not getting anything from me.”

He turned to move away, and Gerard took a quick step forward, driving Sergio back against the wall and planting his hands firmly on either side of him. Sergio spun back to face him, his eyes wide and startled. “Prove it,” Gerard growled.

“Prove what?” Sergio demanded, and Gerard didn’t miss the slight edge of breathlessness in his voice, or the way he made no move to try and get away.

“Prove to me once and for all that I don’t fluster you,” Gerard said, his eyes refusing to release Sergio’s from their burning gaze.

“And how do I do that?”

Gerard moved closer, close enough that he could feel the heat of Sergio’s body against his own without actually making contact. “I never told you what I dream about for a draw,” he breathed.

Sergio met his gaze defiantly. “Go on then, Piqué. Do your worst.” 

“Draws can be frustrating,” Gerard said, his voice coming out low and rough, and he swore he felt a shudder run through Sergio’s body. “This is exactly how I’d want you after a draw, barely dressed and up against the wall.” He leaned down, letting his breath ghost out across Sergio’s lips as he continued. “In my dreams I pin your arms above your head. I want you to know who’s in charge. I want you exposed and vulnerable and completely at my mercy.” Sergio’s mouth fell open slightly, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, Gerard following the motion with his eyes like a hawk tracking a mouse. He moved the tiniest bit closer, letting his body finally press against Sergio’s, and he was rewarded by just the faintest stutter of breath from the other man. “I’ll take my time with you,” Gerard continued. “I want to explore every inch of your body with my fingers and my mouth. I want you hard and begging, begging me to make you come.”

“Fuck,” Sergio groaned suddenly, his head falling back against the wall, his hands flying up to clutch at Gerard’s shirt. “Shut up, Geri,” he gasped out, his eyes wild and desperate. “Shut up and show me. Show me what you want to do to me.”

It was the only invitation Gerard needed. He closed the remaining distance between them, pressing Sergio firmly against the wall with his body. His lips found Sergio’s in a hungry clash, and Sergio moaned brokenly, his fingers scrabbling frantically at Gerard’s sides as he tried to drag him closer. Gerard’s hands found their way onto Sergio’s bare skin, roaming up and down his body, fingers fluttering over every dip and curve of him until Sergio was grinding desperately against Gerard’s leg, panting and gasping wantonly into Gerard’s mouth. 

Gerard pulled back and Sergio let out a needy moan, his mouth hungrily trying to find Gerard’s again. “Sergio,” Gerard groaned. “God, Sergio, I want you. I’d fuck you right here if I could. But you need to go.” Sergio’s eyes blinked open in confusion, trying to focus on Gerard through a haze of lust. “Your teammates are going to come looking for you,” Gerard breathed, unable to stop his fingers from reaching up to run over Sergio’s impossibly soft lips. “You need to go.” 

“But I don’t want to,” Sergio muttered petulantly, his lips darting out to capture Gerard’s fingers, sucking on them gently and driving the last rational thought out of Gerard’s mind. 

“Turn around,” Gerard growled, his free hand sliding down to firmly squeeze Sergio’s ass, savouring the feel of it under his hand.

“Why?” Sergio asked blankly, the look of dazed confusion still in his eyes.

“I’m going to fuck you.”

“With what?”

Gerard blinked. It was not the question he’d been expecting. “With… my penis?” he offered helpfully.

Sergio flushed and reached up to give him a light smack on the head. “I know that, jackass. But don’t we need… lube or something?”

At that moment, there came the faint sounds of chatting and laughter in the hall outside, and Sergio started away from Gerard guiltily. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He gave Gerard a firm shove towards the showers. “Hide,” he hissed, his eyes darting frantically around the room. “This was a mistake. Fuck. Where the hell are my pants? _Mierda_.”

Gerard reached down and wordlessly picked Sergio’s pants up from the bench, thrusting them into his hands before he retreated into the showers, his heart hammering uncomfortably in his chest. Sergio was focused on struggling into his pants, not even glancing up as Gerard disappeared out of sight.

For a moment there were only the sounds of Sergio hastily dressing himself and gathering his things as the voices drew closer. Then the door banged open. “Hey, Sergio,” Isco’s voice called. “Are you finished making yourself pretty?”

“This level of perfection cannot be rushed, Francisco,” Sergio reprimanded, his voice moving away from Gerard as he crossed the room to join his teammates at the door.

“If it takes you this long to look like that, you should ask for your time back,” Lucas’s voice laughed. Gerard didn’t quite hear Sergio’s reply as the door swung shut behind the Madrid players, leaving him alone in the showers.

He let his head thud onto the cool tile of the wall. “What the hell are you doing, Piqué?” he muttered to himself. “Fucking idiot.” 

Gerard closed his eyes, trying to still the frantic beating of his heart and calm the aching in his body, desperately trying to get ahold of himself. His thoughts were spinning wildly in his head, trying to process how one moment he’d had everything he wanted and the next he was alone in a shower, the word “mistake” echoing painfully loudly in his head.


End file.
